Vhalar 47, 723
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Today was the last day of his writing class. The finality of the experience? A certificate in writing and he was all too ecstatic to display it on his ice box at home. He had been doing well so far- making adjustments as they were suggested, completing work at home as they had been tasked, and contributing in discussions as required. He had meddled outside the realm of his normal zone of comfort in taking part in this class. Thinking outside the box had been difficult, but something he would never regret having done. At least in the name of higher education. Whenever he had the tempting thought of I’ll do it tomorrow he immediately countered it with but what is tomorrow if not the lost opportunities of today? Kotton had become a significantly better studier, learner, and person all from having taken this course. He had obtained new information on more than just the subject of writing, he also learned more about time management, self reflection and editorial composition. That being said, he felt ready for this final exam.
“In order to obtain your certificate in writing, you will be formally tasked with completing a final assignment,” his instructor stated, her lips enunciating each and every syllable like they were the world’s last hope of survival. Kotton’s eyes widened at each consonant that left her lips. He took each and every vowel and crushed it to his chest with an issuance of personal possession; they were his property now, and he would utilise them in the most functional way possible. He was going to passing score today.
The young man expanded his lungs as a breath of fresh air whooshed in. It was coated in fresh papyrus, unscratched oak and ubiquitous anticipation. The latter was a shared experience throughout the room. Other students were either chewing their pencils, biting their finger nails or bobbing their legs in alarum.
It wasn’t soon thereafter that the professor made her way across the room, having handed out pamphlets to each of her pupils. Kotton the faces of every individual upon receiving their pamphlet. He wanted to know what he was in for. He had come to understand who was a hard worker, a brown noser, a slacker and a ‘I’ll just wing it’ type. He had been seated next to a high achiever during the entirety of the course so he knew what to look for.
The girl behind him (who was never caught dead without pigtails) scrutinised the paper. He watched as her eyes squinted, enlargened, and inevitably settledwith determined comprehension. Next, he witnessed a tall and quiet peer who seemed to merely glance at the document before rolling their eyes and throwing themselves back against their chair. Following them was an occasionally talkative woman with deep brown eyes and bold eyebrows that screamed ‘trim me’. She took one moment’s gaze at the paper before gasping. She shielded her mouth with the back of her hand a second too late. Kotton was able to capture the look of fright with lasting certainty. This test was proving to be a challenge, so it seemed.
All this time, Kotton’s stomach was knotted, his intestines tripping over one another in a twisting dance of violence. There with an unnecessary expenditure of energy that made his heart pound like a thunderclap. It was just a test. But the final grade would inevitably lead to either devastation or the erection of his literary professionalism. He hadn't properly meditated in days, but he gave it a shot. He needed to relax or else the words on the page would float in a garbled mess of anxiety.
He closed his eyes, forcibly forgetting the simulacrums of concern, confidence and indifference. He channelled his concentration to the aching throb of his heart. He didn’t need to be fretting over this as much as he was. Whilst focus was essential, he still needed to clear his head and perhaps think of an expansive meadow of flowers instead.
The wind nonexistent apart from occasionally lashing out against the tall blades of grass. The scene was heavenly. Just thinking about such solace was enough of a distraction for Kotton to relax a little. Although the beat of his heart remained irregular (cursed disobliging anxiety), Kotton felt more at ease with his current circumstance. It was all a part of the learning process. He needed to step outside of his comfort zone in order to progress and to prosper.
Finally, his teacher set the examination paper on his own desk. It was upside down, reflecting a blank sheet. Kotton pictured various marks that determined the fate of his proficiency. Did he dare turn it over? Was his destination probable failure or undeniable success? He bit his lip before turning the paper over. In fact, he flipped his test over so quickly that he was unable to read the text to the first question without giving a double take.
What does writing in the third person mean? it asked.
Kotton smiled. He knew the answer. He jotted it down without hesitation: “You're narrating as a perspective outside the events of the story.”
Locking eyes with the next bolded question, he read, A limerick is… This one offered multiple choices.
Kotton contemplated each suggestion before circling the box that stated “a light or humorous verse of five anapestic verses.” He had remembered the pig-tailed girl inquiring as to the definition of ‘anapestic’ during day one. Thank the gods he had read her lips when he had. I appreciate you, ma’am.. He offered her a quick acknowledging glance in her direction.
Following a deep breath, Kotton readied his pencil for the next set of problems of the exam. The next question was a bit of a bump in the otherwise smooth flow of his journey. He ravaged his brain for the correct response. Had he truly learnt this? He must have or else it wouldn’t be on the test, would it? He concentrated hard on the words. They floated upwards, refracting off his corneas, before becoming lost as a mist amidst the stress of the room.
What is the definition of a satire?
He needed just a pinprick of enlightenment or else… or else… Wait, would one missed question destine him to complete nonfeasance? Of course not. No test was rigged that way or else no one would be arbitrated a victor. Kotton smiled at this epiphany,. It was just the kind of support he needed to feel encouraged. He didn’t know the answer, so he made up one.
He wrote, “a humourously written piece of prose.[/i] He had no idea how close or erroneous his answer was. But it didn't matter; the paper still held so many questions waiting to be answered.
Fortunately the next problem gifted him the option for less mental stimulation. The beginning of a story is usually referred to as the…
He scoffed at the multiple choice options supplied. The letter A suggested ‘origination of all humanity’. Letter B stated ‘an impasse between two conflicting ideals’. Letter D offered the beginning of a story as ‘the conclusion’. He had studied long enough and hard enough to know that the beginning was always the introduction and this was denoted by the letter C. He circled it aggressively, the tip of his pencil unintentionally digging deep into the paper. He wanted to make a point, apparently.
The rest of the exam continued very much the same. Kotton’s internal clock raged with a rush of endorphins; he feared running out of time. Apart from that, everything went as well as could be expected. The girl behind him, pigtails as straight as rods of rebar, festered on certain questions whilst flying through others. The tall and quiet individual with a breathtaking sense of apathetic intrigue progressed slowly and without frustration. And the frequently amicable woman with chocolate eyes resumed her struggle with additional animated expressions (some were hard not to laugh at).
For Kotton, well, he felt confident about most, but struggled with several. An acceptably average student if there was one. Overall, hid budding optimism blossomed in satisfaction, yielding him a relieved exhale. He returned his completed pamphlet to his instructor.
She was to correct each and every paper during the session, the intention being able to award each student with their passing or failing marks in real time. Kotton twiddled his thumbs with apprehension as he waited such as everyone else would have. He reflected on his responses. Had that one been correct? Had this one? Was he as detailed as he could have been on question number seven? Did the girl in pig-tails, always so intelligent and vocal, come to the same conclusion as he did? The doubts were endless, but passed the time.
Kotton closed his eyes again, concentrating on the rhythm of his heart, and neglecting any regard to external stimuli. He always felt anxious- that was a given- but during the times where anxiety was essential, well, he desperately wanted to have some hand of control over it.
Half an hour went by, although it felt much less. Kotton's eyes snapped open to the staggering silhouette of his instructor leaning over his desk. She was waving her arms to get his attention. Embarrassment and perpetual social anxiety had left him unable to tell her his inability to hear. Hopefully she hadn't been doing that for very long.
“Here is your result,” she declared once Kotton was able to clear his eyes. She gently resting his reviewed exam on the table.
Had air always been this hard to obtain? His lungs felt quenched even though he had practised meditating minutes prior. He shook his body of any misgivings. Why was he always so hard on himself? He had done everything he could in order to succeed in this class. Perhaps it was only natural to doubt whether he had acquired his certificate or succumbed to the relegation of another semester.
After flipping over the pamphlet, his eyes met gold. A strongly, provocative and bolded number had been bled into the page with marker. He had passed. It didn’t matter his score, he had achieved what he had set out to. He had just been given his certificate in writing.
He couldn't contain his smile. It burgeoned greater than the width of a sunflower. It was brighter than the rising of any sun. And it was most definitely more beautiful than any sunset. He patted himself on the back and raised his exam figuratively in the air for all to see. He had done it.
He was proud and that feeling of pride would follow him for days.
“In order to obtain your certificate in writing, you will be formally tasked with completing a final assignment,” his instructor stated, her lips enunciating each and every syllable like they were the world’s last hope of survival. Kotton’s eyes widened at each consonant that left her lips. He took each and every vowel and crushed it to his chest with an issuance of personal possession; they were his property now, and he would utilise them in the most functional way possible. He was going to passing score today.
The young man expanded his lungs as a breath of fresh air whooshed in. It was coated in fresh papyrus, unscratched oak and ubiquitous anticipation. The latter was a shared experience throughout the room. Other students were either chewing their pencils, biting their finger nails or bobbing their legs in alarum.
It wasn’t soon thereafter that the professor made her way across the room, having handed out pamphlets to each of her pupils. Kotton the faces of every individual upon receiving their pamphlet. He wanted to know what he was in for. He had come to understand who was a hard worker, a brown noser, a slacker and a ‘I’ll just wing it’ type. He had been seated next to a high achiever during the entirety of the course so he knew what to look for.
The girl behind him (who was never caught dead without pigtails) scrutinised the paper. He watched as her eyes squinted, enlargened, and inevitably settledwith determined comprehension. Next, he witnessed a tall and quiet peer who seemed to merely glance at the document before rolling their eyes and throwing themselves back against their chair. Following them was an occasionally talkative woman with deep brown eyes and bold eyebrows that screamed ‘trim me’. She took one moment’s gaze at the paper before gasping. She shielded her mouth with the back of her hand a second too late. Kotton was able to capture the look of fright with lasting certainty. This test was proving to be a challenge, so it seemed.
All this time, Kotton’s stomach was knotted, his intestines tripping over one another in a twisting dance of violence. There with an unnecessary expenditure of energy that made his heart pound like a thunderclap. It was just a test. But the final grade would inevitably lead to either devastation or the erection of his literary professionalism. He hadn't properly meditated in days, but he gave it a shot. He needed to relax or else the words on the page would float in a garbled mess of anxiety.
He closed his eyes, forcibly forgetting the simulacrums of concern, confidence and indifference. He channelled his concentration to the aching throb of his heart. He didn’t need to be fretting over this as much as he was. Whilst focus was essential, he still needed to clear his head and perhaps think of an expansive meadow of flowers instead.
The wind nonexistent apart from occasionally lashing out against the tall blades of grass. The scene was heavenly. Just thinking about such solace was enough of a distraction for Kotton to relax a little. Although the beat of his heart remained irregular (cursed disobliging anxiety), Kotton felt more at ease with his current circumstance. It was all a part of the learning process. He needed to step outside of his comfort zone in order to progress and to prosper.
Finally, his teacher set the examination paper on his own desk. It was upside down, reflecting a blank sheet. Kotton pictured various marks that determined the fate of his proficiency. Did he dare turn it over? Was his destination probable failure or undeniable success? He bit his lip before turning the paper over. In fact, he flipped his test over so quickly that he was unable to read the text to the first question without giving a double take.
What does writing in the third person mean? it asked.
Kotton smiled. He knew the answer. He jotted it down without hesitation: “You're narrating as a perspective outside the events of the story.”
Locking eyes with the next bolded question, he read, A limerick is… This one offered multiple choices.
Kotton contemplated each suggestion before circling the box that stated “a light or humorous verse of five anapestic verses.” He had remembered the pig-tailed girl inquiring as to the definition of ‘anapestic’ during day one. Thank the gods he had read her lips when he had. I appreciate you, ma’am.. He offered her a quick acknowledging glance in her direction.
Following a deep breath, Kotton readied his pencil for the next set of problems of the exam. The next question was a bit of a bump in the otherwise smooth flow of his journey. He ravaged his brain for the correct response. Had he truly learnt this? He must have or else it wouldn’t be on the test, would it? He concentrated hard on the words. They floated upwards, refracting off his corneas, before becoming lost as a mist amidst the stress of the room.
What is the definition of a satire?
He needed just a pinprick of enlightenment or else… or else… Wait, would one missed question destine him to complete nonfeasance? Of course not. No test was rigged that way or else no one would be arbitrated a victor. Kotton smiled at this epiphany,. It was just the kind of support he needed to feel encouraged. He didn’t know the answer, so he made up one.
He wrote, “a humourously written piece of prose.[/i] He had no idea how close or erroneous his answer was. But it didn't matter; the paper still held so many questions waiting to be answered.
Fortunately the next problem gifted him the option for less mental stimulation. The beginning of a story is usually referred to as the…
He scoffed at the multiple choice options supplied. The letter A suggested ‘origination of all humanity’. Letter B stated ‘an impasse between two conflicting ideals’. Letter D offered the beginning of a story as ‘the conclusion’. He had studied long enough and hard enough to know that the beginning was always the introduction and this was denoted by the letter C. He circled it aggressively, the tip of his pencil unintentionally digging deep into the paper. He wanted to make a point, apparently.
The rest of the exam continued very much the same. Kotton’s internal clock raged with a rush of endorphins; he feared running out of time. Apart from that, everything went as well as could be expected. The girl behind him, pigtails as straight as rods of rebar, festered on certain questions whilst flying through others. The tall and quiet individual with a breathtaking sense of apathetic intrigue progressed slowly and without frustration. And the frequently amicable woman with chocolate eyes resumed her struggle with additional animated expressions (some were hard not to laugh at).
For Kotton, well, he felt confident about most, but struggled with several. An acceptably average student if there was one. Overall, hid budding optimism blossomed in satisfaction, yielding him a relieved exhale. He returned his completed pamphlet to his instructor.
She was to correct each and every paper during the session, the intention being able to award each student with their passing or failing marks in real time. Kotton twiddled his thumbs with apprehension as he waited such as everyone else would have. He reflected on his responses. Had that one been correct? Had this one? Was he as detailed as he could have been on question number seven? Did the girl in pig-tails, always so intelligent and vocal, come to the same conclusion as he did? The doubts were endless, but passed the time.
Kotton closed his eyes again, concentrating on the rhythm of his heart, and neglecting any regard to external stimuli. He always felt anxious- that was a given- but during the times where anxiety was essential, well, he desperately wanted to have some hand of control over it.
Half an hour went by, although it felt much less. Kotton's eyes snapped open to the staggering silhouette of his instructor leaning over his desk. She was waving her arms to get his attention. Embarrassment and perpetual social anxiety had left him unable to tell her his inability to hear. Hopefully she hadn't been doing that for very long.
“Here is your result,” she declared once Kotton was able to clear his eyes. She gently resting his reviewed exam on the table.
Had air always been this hard to obtain? His lungs felt quenched even though he had practised meditating minutes prior. He shook his body of any misgivings. Why was he always so hard on himself? He had done everything he could in order to succeed in this class. Perhaps it was only natural to doubt whether he had acquired his certificate or succumbed to the relegation of another semester.
After flipping over the pamphlet, his eyes met gold. A strongly, provocative and bolded number had been bled into the page with marker. He had passed. It didn’t matter his score, he had achieved what he had set out to. He had just been given his certificate in writing.
He couldn't contain his smile. It burgeoned greater than the width of a sunflower. It was brighter than the rising of any sun. And it was most definitely more beautiful than any sunset. He patted himself on the back and raised his exam figuratively in the air for all to see. He had done it.
He was proud and that feeling of pride would follow him for days.
